Anomalous Zone
by witchesdiner
Summary: A-Z prompt challenge with my friend lordkatertots on tumblr. Reposted on here. Each chapter is a oneshot and can be read on its own! Ch 8: Pacifica struggles with the image her parents want for her. Slight Mabifica.
1. A is for Anomaly

_This is on tumblr and ao3 already. finally got around to putting it up here._

* * *

 **A is for Anomaly**

"I'm- I'm weird, too," the boy stutters, wide eyes searching him a moment before looking away.

"Is that so?" Stanford hums, turning back to his desk littered with yellowing notes and Fiddleford's water-stained blueprints.

The boy's foot scraps against the concrete floor and Stanford wishes he would stop dancing around whatever he wants to say. However, he sets his pen aside and bends in his seat so he is at eye-level with the child, Dipper.

Dipper's face scrunches up a moment before it sets. His brows furrowed and mouth in a straight line.

"You look like Stanley," Stanford laughs, shifting in his seat.

"No way!" Dipper squeaks.

"What, do you want to look like me? Or your sister?" he replied, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his face in his hands.

Dipper doesn't answer him, just searches him with narrowed eyes. Then he wrings his hands and starts muttering to himself.

"What was that?" Stanford leans in.

"I can't look like them…"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm weird."

"How so?"

"Well, it's not like I can make a worse impression," he mumbles to himself. Dipper sighs heavily, then sucks in a series of quick breaths. "I can- I can show you."

He sits awkwardly in his seat as the child struggles with himself. He thinks about laying a hand on his shoulder but is worried that it will only make him feel worse.

Finally, Dipper takes off his hat and brushes up his fringe.

"Oh!"

The lab is silent a moment and his anxiety spikes. He rocks in his seat as he watches the tears gather in Dipper's eyes.

"It's amazing!" he breaths, reaching out to brush a hand against the child's forehead.

"Really?" the boy grins at him, hands squishing his cheeks.

"Really."

"You don't think I'm weird?"

"No weirder than I am, Dipper." Stanford smiles and ruffles his hair.

"Do you- do you know why we're like this?" he asks, shyly brushing his hair back into place. He fidgets, playing with a loose curl around his ear.

"Guess it's in our blood. Pines freaks?" he holds out his hand which Dipper eagerly slaps his own against.

"Pines freaks."


	2. B is for Banned

_**note:** I call Soos' grandmother Alba because she needs a first name_

* * *

 **B is for Banned**

"You can take your call now, Mr. Pines." The officer herded him out of the cell, roughly pushing him along. "And, make it count. You only get one."

"Yeah, yeah, I got ya. Not like I haven't been arrested before," Stan grumbled, waving his hands dismissively.

He pulled the phone off the hook and slowly picked at the numbers one by one, trying to remember what came next as he went along. He frowned as he entered in the last three digits, not entirely sure if it was right.

Stan forced the phone between his ear and shoulder. He practiced the motions of the coin trick he'd been working on, but without a coin it wasn't much to look at. The dial tone trilled in his ear as an imaginary golden dollar ghosted smoothly over his knuckles.

"Hello, this is Alba Ramirez. What can I do for you?"

Stan could almost see her, in her pink curlers and slippers, chipped nails tapping against the phone.

"St-Stanford Pines, here. I, uh, need you to tell Soos not to come in for work tomorrow?"

"Why is that, Mr. Pines?"

"I, um, well, I might be in jail right now."

"Well," she huffed. He could hear her eyes rolling.

"Look, it's no big deal. I may have tried to… cancel July 13 and may or may not have threatened some government officials and driven my car into a building." Stan explained in one breath, feeling rather childish as he spoke.

"Oh." Alba was silent a moment, but quickly recovered, "That was very stupid."

"Alright, alright, it was dumb. Just don't go blabbering about this to Soos, okay?" Stan fiddled with the metal phone cord in one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with the other. "He doesn't need to worry about this kinda junk."

"Soos- he thinks you're a great man, Mr. Pines," Alba sighed. "Try to be that man."

"I _am_ trying," he replied, throwing his hands up in the air, "It's just nothing ever goes right when I try!"

"You need to relax. Do you need a ride? Just a ride. I cannot pay for you; we have no money right now."

"They're gonna release me soon. Just… if you- if you could come tomorrow? The car's totalled…"

"I'm sure I can manage," Alba replied with a laugh.

"What's so funny over there? I'm in _jail_ over here, so I can't hear it." Stan didn't pause to allow her a response, "Anyway, I- I guess this is the part where I say thanks or something."

"You're welcome."

"Okay, I'm hanging up-"

"Not yet." Alba sucked in a loud breath before continuing, "It was stupid but you tried to do something good for Soos and I-"

"You don't have to thank me, Mrs. Ram-"

"No, Mr. Pines. You misunderstand me- I wanted to say do better next time."

There was a loud click and the line went silent.


	3. C is for Corner

Stanley squirmed on the couch. His shoulder ached and the ghosts of a thousand bugs were crawling up and down his legs, but he couldn't move. The cool leather of Stanford's journal rubbed against his arm.

His gaze shifted from the unfinished ceiling to the snow falling just outside the window. As the wind howled, as tiny flakes fell against the glass and stuck or melted he imagined them piling up on him. He shifted his hold on the journal, moving his arm away from the warm patch that had developed from his body heat.

He closed his eyes and saw himself walking out the door and lying in the snow. It might feel good on his back.

Stanley shifted, the rough fabric of the couch rubbing against his bare shoulder. He shoved his fingers in his mouth and bit down as tears gathered in his eyes.

"You- you dumb baby!" he hissed through his hand, "You stupid, dumb idiot."

He gritted his teeth and turned on his side, curling around Stanford's journal.

A constant dripping sounded from the corner and he screwed his eyes shut. His head pounded and a tear ran sideways down his face, gathering on the tip of his nose.

Drip. Drip.

* * *

"Oh, the cabinets are different," Stanley had said offhandedly as he pulled one open and pocketed a pack of peanuts.

"You know you're real thick, Stanley," his mother had replied, hand curling over the phone receiver. She had met his gaze as he turned around and folded one leg over the other. "They've been like that for weeks."

"Oh."

Stanley had stopped looking at things too closely after that.

* * *

He laid the loaf of bread down on the couch and walked over to the jars piled up on a cluttered side table. It was probably some freak shit that Stanford was experimenting with, but Stanley prayed for jam. He rolled a jar around in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the masking tape label unfurling on the lid.

 _Raspberry Jam. No good after 6/28/84! Remember- I'm always right about jam! -Fiddleford_

"Well, it's worth a try," Stanley sighed, shrugging even though no one else was around to see it. He twisted open the lid and sniffed the contents of the jar. "'S alright to me."

He spread the jam with a spoon on a slice of untoasted bread and pressed another slice to to it.

The sound of glass shattering broke the silence and Stanley ducked, assuming someone had broken the window. A wet slapping echoed through the room.

Stanley peeked out from the cover of his arms to see a weird seal staring up at him with glowing, lamp-like eyes. His eyes darted to the sandwich lying on the floor.

"You, uh… you… like raspberry jelly sandwiches?"

* * *

"What're we suppose to do, Stanford Jr?" Stanley asked, passing the creature slices of bread and hoping it wouldn't bite his fingers off. He was sitting on the toilet, watching the creature thrash in the shallow water. "You need somewhere better'n this, don'cha?"

He threaded his fingers together and stared at the stains on his shirt.

Stanford Jr squawked and dipped his head under the water.

"You don't wanna… stay and be an exhibit?" Stanley spread his hands out, making an arch in the air. "The One and Only Gravity Falls Lake Monster! He's a freak of nature! He loves raspberry jelly! He might not eat your children!"

The creature shook his head, a small spray of water hitting him square in the face.

"You know what? That's the closest I've come to a shower in weeks." Stanley wrinkled his nose. He turned to Stanford Jr, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "And now you're in the tub, you big asshole! Can't shower now…"

He swatted at the monster and it made to nip at his hand.

"Ha HA, no one gets the best of Stan Pines!"

* * *

"I guess this is the best place for him to live," Stanley muttered to himself. He stepped back as the waves licked at his unpolished dress shoes.

He squinted at the line of water that spread past the dense forest, blending in with the horizon.

"I bet he could get pretty far…"

* * *

"We gotta- we gotta get you outta here before you're too big to fit through the door," Stanley said, wringing his hands and pacing around the tiny bathroom.

Stanford Jr emitted a loud shriek, swinging his head back and forth. He beat against the shower head.

"He-hey there, lil guy. I gotcha some fish because you decided to be a big jerk and not like bread anymore… and, well, anyway, it was expensive so…" Stanley's nose twitched at the stench of raw fish that filled the room. He tipped the bucket in his hands spreading fish guts along the bathroom floor, creating a trail that ran down the hallway. He made sure never to pour out too much but he knew he'd run out before he made it to the clearing outside the shack. No matter how careful he was.

He strapped Stanford Jr to the roof of the car, wincing as sharp teeth dug into his right hand. He rushed into the car the moment the ropes were in place and sped out into the night. Stanley squinted into the darkness and took sharp turns down rough roads. Tree roots dug at the underside while Stanford Jr pounded the roof.

"Am I gonna miss you ruining everything?" Stanley asked himself, fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel. "I guess so…"

* * *

Stanford Jr burst from his bonds after Stanley had cut away two of the many ropes holding him to the car. The creature flailed on the sand, rushing toward the water.

"You're not even going to say goodbye, you big jerk!" Stanley shouted, waving his fist in the air.

Stanford Jr turned toward him, his luminescent eyes his only distinguishable trait in the darkness.

"Oh, don't look at me with those big eyes. It's too late now! Go find the ocean, Stanford Jr. Sink a ship for old Stanley Pines!"

Stanford Jr blinked twice and then looked away, sliding into the cold lake water.

"Goodbye, Stanford," he whispered, watching the murky lake's surface ripple. He stayed long past the point where he could see anything in the water.

* * *

If he was being quite honest with himself, Stanley would say that he didn't remember much of his first official tour as Mr. Mystery of the Murder Hut. It was mostly hand waving and making sure no one's kids touched anything. Though a small exchange buzzed in his head for days afterward.

"Now remember, ladies and gentleman, to stay safe out there. I hear there's a lake monster! But I don't think he'll be around much longer- what, what with all that ocean out there."

"Oh, he'll be around," a young woman spoke up from the tour group, "The Gravity Falls Lake doesn't go out to the ocean."

"Figures."


	4. D is for Depths

Mabel rolled the half-filled bottle of Gravity Falls Sparkling Sarsaparilla Soda between her hands. She dug her nails into the condensation-soaked label. It pulled off in sticky strips, and bunched up under her nails.

She took a long swig from the bottle, trying to down as much as she could at once. She gagged and it dribbled down her chin. She rubbed her face on her sweater sleeve and set the bottle down beside her.

Mabel rifled through the large pouch in her kangaroo sweater.

"Palate cleanser!" she exclaimed, twisting open her chap stick and taking a bite. "Thank you, Strawberry Soon I Will Meet My True Love."

Her hands gripped the wooden pier, her shoulders caved in, and she stared down past her yellow flip flops, into the depths of the lake. "True love…"

"Meow!" Mabel encouraged herself, sitting up pin straight and swinging her legs faster. The bottle met her lips once more. "For true love!"

"Eugh!" Mabel looked both ways and tipped the bottle upside down.

"You stop right there!"

"Great Uncle Ford?" Mabel swung around to face him.

"Hasn't Stanley taught you kids that pollution is wrong? It's destroying this planet in billions of realities. It's basically a temporal constant at this point," Ford scoffed, sitting cross-legged beside her. He held out his hand, "Let me finish it; I haven't had this stuff in eons… Do kids still vastly overestimate periods of time?"

"Take it." Mabel shoved the bottle at him, a genuine laugh bubbling up in her belly.

"Alright. I hope it's still good," Ford said, immediately chugging the rest of the bottle in one go. "Not bad. Think they changed the recipe though."

"If you go online you can find people who remake drinks! If you like it better the old way I bet- I bet we could find a recipe and make it!"

"Nah, this is good enough." Ford smiled, licking his lips. "Now, I'm guessing you want this bottle. Do you collect them?"

"No, I use them to send letters to Mermando," Mabel answered, taking the bottle back from him. She pulled a notepad from her pocket and tore out two pages, carefully rolling them up and putting them in the bottle.

"Mermando?"

"My merman ex-boyfriend," Mabel sighed, setting the bottle down a moment to pick at the dirt and wads of wet paper gathered under her nails.

"I bet that's a good story," Ford laughed, somewhat misreading the mood.

"Yeah… he's getting married. I should be happy for him, right? She's so beautiful and she can breath underwater and she's a real princess," Mabel spoke slowly, pulling at the hem of her sweater. "What do you do when you're supposed to be happy for someone and you're… not?"

"Mmmm, that's heavy, Mabel," Ford said, frowning and tapping his fingers against his knee. "I've never had… romantic feelings but I-I think I know what you mean. We think about people in what they are in relation to- to us. How they make us feel… "

"So, I'm just sad about me?" she asked, chewing on her lower lip. She was supposed to be a beautiful, selfless princess. Where did that go?"

"Everyone is selfish, Mabel," Ford answered, reaching out a hand to touch her shoulder. He held it out a moment, then laid his hands in his lap. "Missing this Mermando both is and isn't selfish. Sometimes we want to see people and it isn't good for them. Sometimes they want to see you too and it's still… bad."

"Great Uncle Ford, do you- do you think you and Grunkle Stan are bad for each other?" Mabel didn't look at him.

"We're-we're very different, Mabel."

"Being different isn't bad! Me 'n- me 'n Dipper are…" Mabel raised her head to look at her uncle, tears spilling down her face.

"I- Mabel… I–" Ford trailed off. "Things happen and you- and you can't control them. People go in different directions and you can't–"

"You left him behind!" Mabel suddenly shouted, grabbing her bottle and standing up. "He was- he was scared and you didn't do anything!"

"I couldn't– Mabel you weren't there… I–"

"Meow! Bleugh blah!" Mabel's fingers choked the bottle. She made to throw it in the water but it caught the edge of the pier and shattered. Bits of glass sunk into the lake. Her letter drifted on the surface. A small wave pushed it under.

"Mabel, please. Calm down!" Ford had leapt up when the bottle had soared past him. He held up his hands placatingly. "Let's go get another bottle and send your friend a new note. How about that?"

"I don't want to anymore," she replied, rubbing at her eyes. She thought of all the letters she'd sent to Mermando, how he didn't always get them. How the ocean was big and deep and they were still trying even though he should be tired of her.

Mabel imagined herself sending out bottle after bottle with 'Dipper' written on them.

"Am-am I going to have to write some stupid journal so Dipper'll listen to me?"


	5. E is for Endless

"I need you to do this for me, Dipper. You need to make it so I never come back," Stanford crouched down as he spoke, laying a heavy hand on Dipper's shoulder.

"B-but, Great Uncle Ford…" Dipper bit his lip, staring holes through his shoes.

"It's the best way to prevent the destruction of this world," Stanford explained, voice rough. He shifted, lifting his hand, then cleared his throat and continued, "Anyway, it was- it was good to see Stanley again. And meet the two of you."

"But if you– if you go away that won't happen!"

"That's why I concocted this plan." Stanford turned on his heel, moving toward one of his work tables. "When you travel through time… those memories don't go away. They just move. The mind– the mind is complicated. It's built to sustain multiple realities, but it's not fond of remembering them."

"Why does it matter if we remember or not, it won't be real anymore." Dipper's hands balled up into tight fists. His fingers were sticky with sweat but the trembling energy in his chest kept him from rubbing them on his shorts.

" _Fine_ ," Ford huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It won't be real. The you who is you _now_ , the only you you even care about, you present-blinded, small-minded doubter, won't exist. Wow, that was a lot of yous."

"Great Uncle Ford, are you– are you saying I'm stupid?" Dipper's anger was draining, his shoulders slumped forward and his hands fluttered upward, digging into the straps of his backpack.

"Well, if someone who lets his emotions get in the way of the greater good is stupid, then perhaps it fits." Ford pointedly turned his back on Dipper, fiddling with one of the devices on the table.

"What… what do you want me to do?" Dipper asked, a numbness spreading between his shoulder blades.

"I've explained this already," Stanford sighed, "Find Stanley, erase his memory, and send him on his way. Better yet, do it _before_ he comes to Gravity Falls, then the whole messy portal incident can be avoided entirely!"

"So he'll never come to Gravity Falls?" Dipper's eyes widened. "Then I'll never, I'll never–"

"Come to Gravity Falls? Good, then," Stanford finished, his voice even. "Stanley wanted you to be normal anyway."

"You're asking me to give up the best summer of my life!" Dipper shouted at Stanford's back, tears spilling unbidden down his cheeks.

"I'm asking you to save the world!" Stanford rounded on him.

Dipper rubbed at his cheeks, fervently praying that his uncle would be unable to see that he was currently crying.

"And how is ruining our lives going to do that?"

"I never should have came back!" Stanford snapped. "Hell, I never should have left! I was- I was supposed to do something great! And, now I'll be able to do it!"

Dipper flinched as Stanford paced around him, shouting. He was a genius, Dipper reasoned with himself, he was _The Author_. If this was what he thought was best then it had to be. He swallowed thickly and pulled the measuring tape from his pocket.

"I'll do it, Great Uncle Ford."

"That's the ticket!" Stanford grinned, pushing down the bill of his hat.

Dipper smiled up at him weakly, pushing away his fears. He had a couple more questions but he didn't feel like he had the right to ask them. Yet they lingered, pressing in on him as he was squeezed through time and light.

* * *

Dipper recognized the car instantly. The paint job was brighter and there were fewer dents, yes, but it was the Stanley Mobile alright. It was parked on the side of the road and slowly being overtaken by an enormous snowbank.

"Now or never, I guess," Dipper muttered, wondering if it was weird to talk to himself. Stanford did.

He approached the car slowly, snow crunching underfoot. The snow spilled over into his shoes. He let out a piercing shriek as the cold seeped through his socks. His head shot up as the familiar creak of the car window rolling down met his ears.

"Hey, kid, whaddya think you're doing out in this storm?" Stanley's voice, not quite as low but certainly as abrasive, echoed through the deserted road.

"What do _you_ think you're doing, Grun– guy-I-don't-know?" Dipper caught himself just in time. His eyes widened and he looked from side to side, certain that the time police would arrive at any moment.

"Whatever I want because I'm an adult," Stanley waved his hands in the air, a tight smile crossing his face. It broke in a moment, though, his brow crumpling in concern. "You need a ride, kid?"

"I, uh, ye- yeah. That'd be great."

"Alright, move your butt. The passenger door is open as of… _now_ ," Stanley announced, pressing a button on the door. He rolled up the window as Dipper crossed the frozen tundra to get in the car.

"Sooo…" Dipper slammed the door. He laid a hand on the dashboard, tracing the empty spaces where Mabel's stickers would never be.

"Where'd you need to go?" Stanley asked, starting up the car.

"Six eighteen Gopher Road," Dipper answered automatically.

"That's funny… that's, uh, that's where I was going." Stanley's fingers tapped a familiar rhythm against the steering wheel. He hummed tunelessly as the car lurched onto the road. "Didn't think Ford would be all that popular. You some kind of baby genius?"

"Nah…" Dipper could almost hear Stanford shouting at him. He shrugged off his backpack and snapped his seatbelt on. "I'm just Dipper."

"Dipper? Your parents hate you or somethin'?" Stanley snorted, but quickly sobered. "I know mine did. They named me 'n my brother Stanley and Stanford. What kinda… yahoo names their kids the same thing?!"

"Your dad," he answered, laughing nervously.

"HA! You got that right, kiddo," Stanley laughed with him. The same hearty guffaw Dipper had resented day after day.

He reached into his bag, the cold glass of the memory gun greeting him. If he did this, Grunkle Stan would never laugh at him again. He'd never start the Mystery Shack, he'd never ruin Lazy Susan's eye, he'd never hire Soos, he'd never invite them to stay for the summer, he'd never hold Mabel up on his shoulders and shoot off fireworks with them.

"Grunkle Stan?" Dipper hesitated, moving the gun around in his bag to get a better grip on the handle.

"What'd you call me?" Stanley frowned, pulling his eyes away from the road and looking at the child in the seat behind him.

"If you… if you could do something that would– would change everything and like, I don't know, save the world or something. Would you… get rid of the best time of your life?"

"Get ridda the best time of my life, huh?" Stanley rubbed his chin with one hand, squinting out into the snow.

"Would you?" he asked, leaning toward his uncle with an eagerness that sickened him. "If it would save the world?"

"No," Stanley replied, suddenly gaining confidence. "No! What's the world ever done for me?! I'd, uh, I'd watch it explode or whatever and know I did it."

"I can't let you do that," Dipper tried to sound cool when he spoke, but his voice cracked in the middle. He pulled the gun from the bag and pointed it at Stanley.

It was good that he'd already input the text, because he didn't think he'd be able to. His teeth clacked together and his shoulders shook as the air conditioner's hot breath pressed against his arms.

"Wh-what do you think you're doing?" Stanley shouted, holding up his hands. The car veered off course and he quickly grabbed the steering wheel again. "D-don't shoot!"

Dipper bit his lip and repositioned the gun in his hands.

"Please! I-I'm finally getting my life together. I'm gonna see my brother for the first time in ten years and it's-it's probably gonna go wrong but- I- I just want a chance to do something right for once.

"You wanna go to jail, kid? You got… you got endless potential here. Don't mess up. I messed up and I went to jail a coupla times and… I wish I didn't. Don't be like me."

"I have to!" Dipper cried out, fingers searching for the trigger. "You ruin everything! You and your brother fight and you- you push him through the portal and he's gone for thirty years, Grunkle Stan, THIRTY YEARS. And you spend everyday trying to get him back and he-he hates you! He _hates_ you!"

"W-what's going on? Who are you? And w-what do you think know about my brother?!" Stanley pounded his fist into the steering wheel, causing the horn to honk loudly. "What do you know about him?! And why do you keep callin' me that?"

"I'm– I'm your great nephew from the future," he answers, shaking all over. "Great Uncle Ford sent me to do this."

"That-that doesn't make sense!" Stanley looked straight at him.

Dipper finally got a good look at his face. The bags under his eyes, the wrinkles already carving themselves in.

"Why… Does Stanford really hate me that much?" his voice was quiet as he spoke. "Enough to hire the world's smallest hitman?"

"If this makes it any better- which I guess it kind of doesn't?- he said he was glad to see you again," he answered, finger ghosting over the trigger.

"Then why… why doesn't he want to see me now! I- I won't mess everything up. I'm more than just some screw-up, I promise! Let's go to Stanford's house and just… see what happens. Please, you- you gotta believe me."

The words sent a shock through Dipper's system.

He could almost see Mabel hovering over the portal button, its harsh red glow casting shadows on her face. Mabel looking at Grunkle Stan with tears in her eyes. Mabel letting go of the button. Mabel floating away.

Dipper pulled the trigger.

So much for endless possibility.

 _Writer's Woes: This was written on a whim but I would love to explore this idea more. I have some idea for what kind of time shenanigans could happen next._


	6. F is for Forget

Mabel can't cross the gap. She's standing on the edge of the known universe, sinking into the climbing mesh of Hoo-Ha's Fun Palace.

 _My grappling hook is in my star sweater._

It is less of a thought and more of an absolute truth. She reaches into her secret sweater pocket and pulls out a string of yarn. The harder she pulls, the more yarn balls around her hands.

"What's wrong, Mabel?" Mermando asks, drifting by in a claw-footed bathtub.

"I can't find Dipper!" Mabel waves her mitten hands in the air, gesturing vaguely at the void before them. "He's over there, but I can't–"

"You can, Mabel," Mermando reassures, untying the yarn around her hands. "Use this."

"The yarn? I don't know, Merm, isn't that… silly?"

"That is why it will work!" He shoots her a gap-toothed smile before flipping his hair over his shoulder, pulling an oar out of thin air, and rowing away.

"Bye?" She hugs the bundle of yarn close, watching him as he leaves.

The world is a giant play palace, with rainbow slides, planet-covered floors, and an array of game cabinets that Soos would love. Mabel turns away from the stormy void and slips into the arcade.

It would take 500 tickets to win a unicorn or… some weird screaming monster skull. It thrashes in a cage hanging from the star-strewn ceiling.

"Hey Dipper, want me to win you that weirdo skull?" Mabel says to the air beside her. She turns back to the cabinet as if this did not just happen.

"Why is this 0 tickets?" Mabel asks no one, picking up a snow globe on the counter.

"Because it's priceless," Dipper answers from behind the counter, ripping the snow globe from her hands.

A swirl of stars shimmers in the globe. The soft light ghosts over Dipper's arms.

"It's beautiful," Mabel breathes, reaching out to touch it again.

Dipper pushes her arm away with a scoff, buffing the globe with his suddenly long sleeved shirt.

"Get a good look; I need you to remember this," he says, his mouth set in a sour frown.

"Well, if it's zero tickets, you can keep it! Silly!" she goes to punch him in the shoulder but he steps away. She ignores this and smiles, a camera appearing in her hand. "Oh! Do you want to take a scrapbookie? So you can remember forever?"

Dipper is very suddenly beside her, arm slung around her shoulder.

"I remember everything forever," he shout-whispers in her ear, giggling and running away from her.

The camera melts in her hands, leaving behind splatters of glowing glitter.

"Dipper?"

She turns and sees him jogging through the game cabinets. Mabel runs, bundles of yarn filling up her arms and sticking to the glitter on her fingers.

He turns sharply, facing her. She almost bumps into him but it's like there's a border around him. Like he's an exhibit at an art museum and there's glass between them. If she reaches out to touch him, an alarm will sound.

Dipper holds the snow globe up, an unpleasant grin spread across his face. He shoves it in her face, and her eyes cross as her brain struggles to place the object before her. It disappears a moment and returns a second later. A small star rockets across the miniature night sky, leaving behind a silvery-gold trail.

Mabel reaches for the globe and he lets it drop into her hands. He rocks on the edge of the play ropes, whistling as he swings back and forth over the void.

"What do you wanna do with it?" Dipper asks.

Mabel thinks a moment, staring at but not entirely seeing the millions of stars in her hands. She remembers the calming jar she made a month ago, all color and glitter. Stars flowing up and down in her hands. She remembers Dipper saying, very casually, that he didn't care much for the color.

"I wanna smash it."

"I like your tone, missy!"

"Dipper, I-?" Mabel starts only to be interrupted.

"Anywaaay, this has been great and all but I'm a busy guy! Remember, all relationships fail, love isn't real, and unicorns are scientifically impossible! See ya!" Dipper careens into the darkness at the edge of her dream, arms spread out wide.

"Dipper!" She unsticks the yarn from her arms and holds it out to him, but it won't reach.

"You're stupid!" Dipper giggles as the yarn ties itself around his waist.

"And you're not Dipper!" Mabel shouts down the hole in her dream. She feels as if she both knew and didn't know this from the start, but she can't tell. "You're-you're that weird triangle guy!"

"Well, _I_ think you're stupid and he does too!" the monster bit at a line of yarn holding him in the air.

"Ugh, what do you even know about Dipper, you creep?" She wraps the line of yarn around her right hand. The globe takes up her right.

"Absolutely everything! I mean, there isn't that much to know, anyway. Big head, but lotsa open space; great place to move in!" Bill rambles on, chewing on a string of yarn as he talks. "I don't mind it here, though. It's what the real estate guys call cosy!"

"Why won't you just leave us alone?!" Mabel cries out. Her fingers are turning purple. It's not a bad match for her deep pink yarn.

"Oh, do I intend to leave you alone!" Bill throws back Dipper's head, letting out a loud cackle. He drags himself back up on the rope, head snapping up to look her in the eye. "Wanna hear a riddle?"

"No."

"If a shooting star falls in the forest and no one's around to see it, does it make a sound?"

Mabel fiddles with the globe in her hands, running her thumb down the black and yellow lines feeding in from the bottom.

"It's funny because you can't hear anything in space!" He bites down on the yarn then tears it away with one hand. A tooth falls from his mouth and spirals down into the dark. The yarn snaps.

"Bu-bye!" He moves a hand up and down in a mocking wave as he jumps.

He twists in the air as he moves down, reaching a hand towards her.

"M-Mabel!" a voice rings out and it _is_ Dipper this time. "Why do you have- ? You're not supposed to know!"

"Dipper, Dipper, I'm going to get you! Don't worry! I'm the Pines Family Hero; I've got this!"

"No-no nononono NO! Mabel, you can't know! Great Uncle Ford is gonna be so mad! He's– You need to forget about it– R-right now!"

Mabel sticks her feet in between the rope mesh of the floor and swings into the dark. She hangs by her feet, stretching her arms down as far as they'll go.

"Dipper, grab my hands!"

She realizes that the globe is still there, as if it's stuck to her hand.

"Ugh, who cares about this thing!" Mabel flicks her wrist and flings it into the void. She wiggles her fingers and pushes her whole body forward.

"No!" Dipper flops in the air like a fish, grabbing for the globe. It slips past him. He propels himself forward, swimming through the storm clouds after it.

Mabel hangs upside down, the ropes holding her firmly in place.

"Come back?" she calls out to no one.

* * *

Mabel didn't startle awake. She woke up slowly, her head pounding and her pillow wet against her cheek. She kicked out her feet, searching for Waddles. The end of her bed was decisively cold.

"Meow… meow," she whispered, curling in on herself. "Meow."

She tried to drift back asleep, to slip into some new dream (hopefully with more boy bands and candy! Please and thank you.) and let the dream fade in the way that dreams do.

"Meow meowmeow." Mabel whacked herself in the head lightly, phlegm clogging up her throat and tears running down her cheeks.

She couldn't forget what Dipper wanted her to.

 _Writer's woes: Cat's outta the bag I Love writing dream sequences._


	7. G is for Ghost

"So, uh, route 80 goes into… into wherever this is, I guess," Stanley mumbled to himself, squinting at the map and tightening his one-handed grip on the steering wheel. Shoving the map into the seat beside him, he slowed to a stop along the side of the road.

"Ahh, Ghost Lake, at last we meet," Stan announced, cranking down his window. His fingers slipped between the sticky space between seat and door, tugging at the lever. The seat shot up in two jerking motions. Straightening his back like a model student, he spit out a large wad of saliva-disintegrated gum. "How's it going being a lake and, uh, a ghost at the same time?"

He kicked open the door, digging his heels into the leaf litter and dirt. He reached behind him for his pack and in one fluid motion, pulled out a cigarette with his mouth.

"Ugh, where's the damn lighter?" Stan twisted around, digging his hands between the seats before catching sight of it on the floor. "Quit giving me shit, fireguy."

Stan let out a smoky sigh, staring out over the lake. Trees bent toward the water and once in awhile, a leaf would twirl down and, like an expert dancer, dip below the surface.

A mist rolled off the lake in waves, columns of cold air twisted into eerily human shapes.

He narrowed his eyes, following the motions of a vaguely woman-shaped coil of mist. An unruly mop of hair swirled around her head as her hips swayed to the cacophony of crickets, frogs, loons. He thought he heard a muffled tapping somewhere in that non-music music.

"Carla Hotpants McCorkle," he breathed, shakily blowing a ring of smoke toward her. He remembered unashamedly winking and blushing and blowing kisses at that stupid girl with the flower in her hair. "Miss ya, babe."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Geez-louise," a voice grumbled from the other side of the car. "Hey, dope, you wanna let me in?"

Stan twisted his head around to look out the passenger's side window. A woman with tangled black hair pounded her fist into the window, speaking loudly and incessantly.

"Whaddya want, lady?" Stan snapped, flopping down onto the seat to look at her upside-down. He laughed but quickly sobered, pulling himself up into his seat and slamming the door shut. He laid his pack of cigarettes and his lighter on the half-seat thing in between the driver's and passenger's seats.

"Hey! Gimme a ride!" the woman shouted, nervously looking over her shoulder. "I just wanna ride outta here!"

"Ugh, y'know what, fine," Stan groused, leaning over to unlock the door. "Sure, get in. But only because I'm such a great guy."

"Gee, thanks." She pulled open the door and threw herself down, crossing her arms.

"I'm Stan Pines and I'll be your, uh, your gracious host tonight, taking you to, um, well wherever," Stan said as he started the car, taking a not-so surreptitious look over at the fellow traveller. The dress is a bit out of style, but who is he to judge. She's probably down on her luck too. Trapped in some awful little town in Nowhere, New Jersey. "And you are?"

The woman crossed her legs and let out a sigh, "Let's just go."

"Alright, alright, Antisocial Pants." Stan started along the road, going perhaps a little faster than he normally wood. He imagined that she had a gun on her, in her little denim bag. One of those murder-hitchhikers, looking for some sucker.

"Hey, don't go so fast," she complained, waving a hand at him. "And gimme a cigarette."

"Get it yourself. But you only get one," he added quickly, giving her a firm glare.

"Fine, fine." The seat squeaked as she moved. Smoke hung around their heads and stank up the car.

"You got any good stories," Stan asked, forcing himself to relax into his seat. "Nothin' personal, if you don't wanna. Just, uh, a story."

"Well, ya see, I killed my husband," she explained blandly.

"Ha ha, good one. M-marriage is terrible, right?" Stan laughed nervously, eyes flicking from the road to the woman in the seat beside him.

"Oh no, I really killed the guy. He's dead," she continued, shifting her crossed legs. "He's buried on this road- head on one side, rest on the other."

"You just tell folks this… like some kinda… uh, party icebreaker?" Stan's knuckles were growing white as he dug his fingers into the unyielding plastic of the steering wheel.

"Parties," she sighed, blowing a fresh ring of smoke, "I ain't been to a party in… _gosh_. Whadda kids do at parties these days?"

"Um, uh, dance? Smoke? Flirt? Whatever they always do, lady," Stan managed to say as he stared into the road. She was maybe going to kill him and she was sort of nice looking from what he could tell in the twilight, so at least he was going to be murdered by a hot chick.

"Sounds good to me. Kids throw parties around the lake but they get scared-a their shadows and leave before anything ever gets good," she waved her hands around as she spoke.

Stan didn't have to be some grant-getting egghead to see that they were dirty.

"Do I get a story?" she asked, flicking ash from her cigarette on the floor.

"What?"

"What are you doing on Shades?"

"I, uh, I got lost off 80 an'–"

"Boring! Where's the drama?"

"You want drama? You're not getting any here," Stan replied, shifting in his seat. "Just a guy, down on his luck, abandoned by his family, looking to make it in the Big City."

"Dime store phony!" the woman laughed, letting out a loud boo.

"Would you believe I've got a twin brother who's also named Stan with six fingers on each hand?"

"Just because I'm a stranger doesn't mean you gotta lie."

"No, for real. Stanford- he's a freaking genius and I'm… some guy with a lot of Sham Totals in his trunk."

The car grew silent.

"This isn't even my car, it's my dad's…" Stan confessed, turning to the woman.

She squirmed in her seat, not looking particularly interested in his story.

"You gotta radio?"

"Doesn't work," Stan grunted, sticking one hand out the window. The wind pushed against his hand, steadying him somewhat.

"Oh, it'll work," she insisted, leaning over and picking at the radio.

Tinny music blared from the speakers and Stan nearly choked on his own spit.

"W-whoa! Didn't think I'd hear your sweet, sweet tones again, Radio." He reached out to pat the dashboard. "You will be a comfort to me in these, my last hours."

The woman snorted and leaned back in her seat. "What, you think I'm gonna kill ya?"

"Honestly? Yeah?" Stan answered, tapping his fingers on the wheel and nervously whistling a couple loose notes. "Ugh, change the station. This is grandpa music."

"Well, I like it," the woman said with a smirk, "And I'm gonna kill you so my rules rules."

"So you admit it!"

"You're taking this pretty well. You wanna die or something?"

"Ugh, not really?" Stan rubbed at his eyes with one hand, taking a wide turn. "Being dead is… it's boring, y'know?"

"It's not that boring," the woman laughed, then sighed, "It's really, really boring. Don't die."

"Uh, w-what's that even supposed to mean?"

"Can you slow down? Christ Almighty, I'm going to kill you and all and you can't slow down."

"If you wanna get outta here so bad, why'd'ya keep tellin' me to slow down?" Stan shouted, slamming his foot down on the breaks. "And stop talking about killing people! It's not funny."

"I know it ain't funny," the woman spat out. "You spend years wanting a guy dead and when he's gone he's _gone_ and ya can't _do_ anything about it. I can't _not_ kill him anymore. Just keep burying the body and askin' for a ride and never getting outta here!"

"What does that even mean?!" Stan turned to her, blinking. He could have sworn he just saw out the window through her…

"Keep goin', I'll have you drop me off somewhere just ahead."

"No murder tonight?" Stan tried to laugh.

"Go!"

Stan hit the gas heavily, staring at the steadily darkening path ahead of him to keep his mind off of the weird lady in the passenger seat.

"Hey, dope," the woman started, the wind coming in from the windows almost drowning her out. "Don't kill nobody. They don't go away the way you want 'em to go…"

He chewed over the words, trying to process them completely. If he lived, he hoped he'd remember it all in the right order.

The radio spat out a string of static and died as he hit the highway.

"Of course," Stan sighed, turning to the passenger seat, "Looks like that didn't last for… huh?"

There wasn't a person in the passenger seat, just his lighter, rolling along the map he'd placed there earlier.

"Weird…"


	8. H is for Hesitation

"And I can honestly say that I'll always be me; I'll always be freeeeeeeee—" the note soured in Pacifica's mouth, too high for her to maintain. She held the microphone away from her as she sucked in shallow breath after shallow breath.

Pacifica tried and failed to locate her diaphragm (whatever that was) as the orchestra played on.

And that was the impossible part, the orchestra played on. Without her.

She twisted the microphone in her gloved hands. They were purple ( _plum_ ), the gloves. Her mother loved _plum_.

Pacifica wobbled on her ten-point-two centimeter heels, staring in between the wire mesh of the microphone and looking for a chance to reenter the song. The verse sped along, all sharp violin stabs and speeding piano. Her heart sped up as she realized that she couldn't hear the flute from where she was. Without her one landmark she was lost. The same notes repeating and repeating and her with nothing but the spotlight's heat beating down on her.

Something settled in her stomach, writhing and pressing its way up her chest. She tightened her hands around the microphone and held still, imagining she was one of those statue ladies her mother always pointed out to her at art museums.

When she tore her gaze from the microphone mesh to look up at the audience, she spotted her mother's signature dress making its way through the auditorium.

"Don't go! Please!" The microphone was too close and her voice popped loudly as the conductor gestured violently for the orchestra to stop.

Mrs. Northwest glanced over her shoulder and pushed open the auditorium door. Pacifica could almost hear her disapproving sniff from on stage.

Pacifica's head swung back and forth, trying to find someone in the audience that she recognized. Her mother had told her that she wasn't allowed to invite anyone from town. A tear made its way down one cheek as she caught sight of her father standing outside the orchestra pit, his face red.

"Start it again!" Pacifica's voice cracked. She swiped a gloved arm across her face and stamped her foot against the lacquered wood. Her father froze then straightened his back, looking directly at (or _through_ ) her.

"You messed me up! Don't you know how to do your own _job_!" Pacifica jabbed a finger at the conductor, angry-sad tears still streaming down her face.

"But I believe in second chances," she said softly, watching as the conductor's mouth opened and closed like the fish she had seen in a cartoon she wasn't allowed to watch, "So we're gonna do it again. All of it."

"Yes, Miss Northwest."

* * *

"A Northwest never regrets. Which is to say, she never does anything regrettable in the first place," her mother explained, not entirely looking at her. She brushed a thin layer of blush over Pacifica's cheeks. "There. Lovely. Absolutely perfect on the first try."

"Mom… I don't think I like makeup," Pacifica started hesitantly, tugging on her pointer finger. "Other girls aren't–"

"Well, then they're not living up to their full potential," she huffed, pinching Pacifica's chin. She tipped the girl's face this way and that to get a good look at her from different angles. "Mmmm, guess it's not perfect after all… it needs a little more."

Pacifica twisted the silver band around her pinkie. She wished she had a mood ring like that older girl, Wendy, the one with fifteen brothers (probably? She couldn't remember). Wendy had just started working at the Save-More-Store and all the poor girls in Pacifica's grade were always trying to dress like her. Her fingers tangled together on her lap and she frowned as her mother swiveled around to pick the makeup kit. A glass bell painted with delicate (though somewhat generic) periwinkle flowers sat innocently on the vanity table alongside the rainbow rows of lipstick and nail polish.

"Well, you know what the poor people say- less is more," Pacifica joked, spreading her hands apart and bouncing her shoulders a little.

"Don't you want to be everything you can be?" Her mother swirled the brush around in the block of chalky pink.

"Yes, mom."

"Then listen to me. Got it?"

"Yes, mom."

* * *

"No, father! You're wrong," Pacifica yelled, gloved hands curled into fists, "I did the right thing!"

"You are not going to argue, Pacifica." Preston crossed his arms and fixed her with a fierce glare. He relaxed his posture a moment later, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I just don't know where this is coming from. You've never had behavior problems before."

"I'm sure it's those Pines children. You know they live in a _shack_ ," Priscilla called from one of the dining tables. She turned to her husband, a wine glass balanced delicately in one hand.

"You might be onto something, darling," Preston nodded, a hand reaching up to rub his chin. "It's no surprise that our daughter has been influenced by those wild hooligans."

"Wild?" Pacifica practically spat, hands flying through the air. "You weren't saying that when you needed Dipper to get rid of that ghost!"

"I never said he couldn't do a job. That's what lower class people do– Jobs," Preston rounded on her. "You shouldn't be galavanting around with them like some kind of- some kind of common folk."

"Ugh," Pacifica grunted, wrapping her arms around her chest. One of her heels tap-tap-tapped against the floor. She refused to listen to the large part of her screaming to run upstairs and go throw up in her private bath. The small, angry pit in her stomach demanded she yell at someone. "This is why that ghost guy wanted to kill us!"

"I don't understand what you're talking about. So, ahem, anyway," Preston boomed, narrowing his eyes. "No more wasting time on those Pines kids. You haven't been applying yourself much this summer, Pacifica dear. I'm thinking we should add some college prep to your schedule. And it's been so long since you've done your vocal training and violin and–"

"I wanna be a normal kid, dad," Pacifica said, her voice surprisingly even. The illusion of calm broke the moment her father reached into his breast pocket. Her hands knotted together and the roiling in her stomach grew harder to ignore.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," Priscilla began, standing up from her seat, "St Dana's would do wonders for her."

"Hmmm, you may be right. I had my reservations before, but in light of recent events, it may be the best course of action," Preston hastily agreed, turning on his heel to meet his wife's eyes.

Pacifica stared at his back, her protest dying on her tongue. Her eyes darted to the oak front doors. She imagined a braver Pacifica running from the house, her hair fanning out behind her and her laughter ringing through the ballroom.

Her gaze trailed down to her shoes as her parents discussed St Dana's in hushed tones. She wasn't sure if the mud had dried yet or not because she'd never had mud on her shoes before.

Dipper would do it. He would waltz right out, shouting about how disgusting the Northwest family was, his shoulders square and his chin held high.

Pacifica was certain that Mabel wouldn't be far behind him.

In her imaginings, she ran. In actuality, Pacifica took a slow shaky side step toward the door. When no one acknowledged this movement, she took another.

She closed her eyes as the night air brushed against her face. Her heart was performing a drum solo, pounding and pounding without any sense of rhythm (like the music that punk Valentino kid played, which she did not hate as much as she should).

Sounds filtered through the heavy beat as she drifted gracefully (speed-walked) down the gravel driveway. The rocks crunched, crickets chirped. Some weirdo animal screamed somewhere behind her. She tugged on the hem of her bolero nervously but kept walking.

Pain shot through her feet with each step. She had known that this particular pair of shoes was too small for her (they were the only ones that matched with her outfit). Pacifica squated (which was an ugly, ugly word that she sort of liked) in the dirt on the side of the roadway and ripped off her heels. They swayed in her hand as she walked, lightly tapping together.

A light flashed in her eyes. Her heart skipped as the car passed her. It was a dingy car, that much was obvious, even in the dark. A trash bag taped over one of the windows whipped in the wind.

A feeling settled over her slowly as rocks tore her panty hose and the night air ruffled her sheer dress. The dirt felt cool against her almost-bare feet. She tipped her head to look at the sky as she drifted along. The stars winked down at her like the dollar store glitter embedded in Mabel's sweaters. Something crept through her arms and legs and settled in her chest. Was it a good feeling? All she knew was she felt awake and real after a day that contained too much to feel like one day anymore.

She knew they weren't coming for her.

* * *

They were not the stock of people who answered the door after the first knock. There was no one poised and ready to attend to her. She leaned her ear into the unfinished wood of the door and smiled as she heard three voices arguing.

"I can't get it; my poor old bones and whatnot."

"Yeah right! More like your poor lazy butt!"

"Ooooh, Dipper's getting fresh!"

"Mabel, sweetie. Never stop encouraging bad behavior- I love it!"

"Aw, thanks, Grunkle Stan."

"Dipper's still getting the door though."

"Aw, man, seriously?"

"Seriously, you little gremlin."

There was a loud sigh and a series of pronounced stomps as Dipper (presumably) approached the door.

Pacifica drew back from the door and crossed her arms, trying to assume a haughty air. However, this was difficult with her shoes. It just looked like she was hugging them tightly to her chest.

"Pacifica? What are you–"

"PACIFICA?!" Mabel shouted from somewhere Pacifica couldn't see. She thundered across the Shack, bumped Dipper out of the way with her hip (and a cry of "Hip check get wrecked!"), and pulled Pacifica into a big hug, crossed arms, shoes, and all.

* * *

Stan had fled the room before Pacifica's feet had touched the shaggy, crumb-covered carpet with a mumble of "All these kids… tripling my age by the second…"

Mabel nodded and waved as he lumbered out of the living room and turned to Pacifica without missing a beat, grin spread across her face.

"Bonjo! And welcome to Chez Pines!" Mabel said grandly, flailing her arms about.

"I've been taking French for four years and that is… the worst… accent I…" she trailed off, laughing. "It's great."

"Is it really?" Dipper asked, one eyebrow raised. He chuckled as he walked through one of the many doorways in the room. "I'm getting soda, you want anything?"

"Two of your finest Pitt Refreshment Beverages and four sugar packets!"

Mabel's shrill voice pounded against her ears but she didn't feel so mad about it.

"Are you sure you can handle that much sugar, Pacifica?" Dipper turned to her, eyes narrowed. "And… can I ask you something? In- In the kitchen."

"Uh… okay?" Pacifica twisted her shoe straps in her hands and rocked on her bare feet.

"Oh! I can take those!" Mabel interjected, ripping the shoes from her hands.

Pacifica took a few nervous steps toward the kitchen, pressing each foot deep into the carpet.

"They're so cute!" Mabel cooed as she dropped them by the door.

* * *

"So, uh… now that we're here… In the kitchen… where I was supposed to ask…."

"Okay, what's up, Pines- uh, Dipper. What's up, Dipper?"

"That's what I wanted to ask you!" he fumed, then calmed down quickly, something Pacifica recognized as pity painting his face. "Did something go wrong with your parents?"

"Well, they didn't want me seeing you guys anymore and obviously I didn't want to do that."

"Oh, man." He was biting his lip as he bustled around the kitchen. "That's serious. I-I'm sorry."

"Yeah…" Pacifica sighed, wringing her hands together while his back was turned to her. "Why don't we… Let's just all try to have fun tonight and not talk about my parents. Okay?"

"It's a deal," Dipper smiled as he turned to her, arms burdened with soda cans.

"Yeah, it is."

* * *

Sugar crystals stuck around the punched-out hole in the can. Pacifica was sitting on the floor with her soda between her knees as a tv announcer screamed about a monster movie marathon continuing.

"Hey, Pacifica! Come up here and sit with us!" Mabel poked Pacifica's shoulders until she turned around to face her.

Pacifica placed her soda carefully on the coffee table and let Mabel pull her up on the chair. She sat between Mabel and the arm of the couch.

"No fair, Mabel! I want to sit next to Pacifica!" Dipper whined.

"No way, Josie! She's sitting with me!"

"Ugh, you always get like this!"

"I can… sit in the middle?" Pacifica said quietly. The two whipped their heads around to face her.

"Oh yeah…" they said in unison, then burst out laughing.

"Pines sandwich! Pines sandwich!" Mabel started chanting and Dipper soon joined in, "Pines sandwich!"

Mabel wiggled out of the way so she could sit between them.

"So, what now?" Pacifica asked, head turning to look at one and then the other.

"Watch tv, silly!" Mabel laughed.

"We just… sit around and watch tv?" she asked, reaching for her soda.

"We sit around and watch tv _together_ , Pacifica."

"Oh, okay."

* * *

"I want short hair," Pacifica insisted, eyes glued to the television set. "Like really short."

"Aw yeeaah! Do it, Pacifica!" Mabel thrust her fist in the air. "Girl Power!"

"Won't your parents be mad at you?" Dipper leaned forward, trying to catch her eye.

"Good. I want them to be," Pacifica replied bluntly, eyes following the short-haired girl on screen. She spun in her seat to face Mabel and grabbed her hands. "Cut my hair! Right now!"

"Oh my gosh! You want me to be your stylist?!"

Pacifica nodded eagerly, then quickly composed herself. She pulled her hands away and stared at her nails. "I mean, you're only the best."

"Pacifica! Oh. My. Gosh! OHMYGOSSHH! I'm going to get some magazines and we can look them over and-"

"No. I want weird… I want cool hair, Mabel."

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" Mabel's voice rose sharply in pitch as she squished her cheeks.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?!" Mabel shouted, jumping off the couch. She threw her hands in the air and waved them around. "Crazy Sleepover–"

Mabel stood still, then took an exaggerated look over each shoulder. "Oh, uh, no one's gonna chant with me?"

Pacifica rubbed her hands together, biting her lip. "Oh. I'm sorry–"

"Crazy Sleepover Hair Design Paaarty!" Dipper chimed in from behind her, waving his hands. Pacifica and Mabel chimed in on "party."

"It's happening!" Mabel rushed from the room. "You guys stay there; I'm getting the Stuff."

As soon as Mabel could be heard galloping up the stairs, Pacifica turned to Dipper.

"Hey, thanks," she said with a weak smile.

"For what, man?" Dipper rubbed circles into his arms, "Oh. Hey, don't worry about it. Mabel thinks the entire universe is one with her. It's no big deal that you didn't get it."

"I-I wish I could get it," Pacifica replied, running a finger over her nails.

"You'll get there." Dipper patted her on the shoulder, heaving out a (fake) world-weary sigh. "They always do."

* * *

Mabel hovered over her, scissors snipping just above her hair. They were surrounded by magazine cutouts and crayon drawings.

"Soooo… are we doing this?" The chair underneath her was hard. She ran her hands along the sides of the seat, feeling the wood bristling with potential splinters.

"Obfv-course-a-ly- that's obviously and of course smashed together," Mabel explained through a mouthful of her own hair.

Dipper sat across the table from them, shaking his head and sighing loudly at all the right places even with his head stuffed in that weird magic book of his. "Just do it already, Mabel. Before the regret comes."

"I'm so not going to regret this." Pacifica crossed her arms and glared across the table.

"Of course, I wouldn't be worried about this at all."

"Yeah, the only thing she's going to have to worry about is being even more popular than ever because she's gonna have the best hair in all the world!"

"Just… be careful, okay? She's the one who has to live with it and you can get a little… over-enthusiastic," he replied, snatching a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table without looking up from his reading.

"That's the Mabel-Mode, Dips!" Mabel retorted, but she laid her scissors down anyway. "I'll only start when you're ready. Okay, Pac?"

Pacifica settled her hands in her lap and stood up straighter.

"I'm ready."

* * *

"Are you ready to see the new you?!" Mabel chirped, removing the towel laid across Pacifica's shoulders. "Hey, Dipper, can you vacuum this up?"

"Sure, why not?" Dipper shrugged, laying his book down with a good-natured smile. He nodded toward Pacifica and gave her a thumbs up.

Pacifica stretched out in her chair, threading her fingers through her hair.

"It looks so great, Pacifica!" Mabel cooed, gently nudging Pacifica's face this way and that. "You're so cute!"

"Th-thanks," Pacifica stammered, edging away from Mabel's hair-covered hands and covering her mouth with one hand to hide the stupid grin spreading its way across her face.

Mabel frowned and stepped back a little, placing her hands on her hips. "Do you like it?"

"I… haven't exactly seen it yet."

"Oh… yeah." Pacifica could see Mabel's face going red before the girl dashed off to grab a mirror.

She sat, rubbing her hair and smiling. She had caught sight of herself in one of the darkened windows, though she was still planning on pretending she hadn't seen it yet when Mabel got back. Mabel had done such a good job…

Mabel had clearly pulled herself together while out of the room and came back radiating confidence. "You better prepare yourself, Pac, you're about to see the cutest girl in Gravity Falls."

"…Yeah. The cutest… girl…" she mumbled, hands reaching out to grab the pink plastic rimmed mirror being handed to her. "Mabel, do you… always feel like a girl?"

"I mean mostly but I think I might be demigirl!"

"…Demigirl?"

"Oh! You should look it up! But I can give you the short version! It's… like a gender thingie where you mostly feel like you're a girl but, like, not one-hundred percent."

"There are other genders?" Pacifica asked, tugging a lock of her short hair.

"Oh yeah there are! There's, like, fourteen billion genders out there," Mabel grinned and reached out to ruffle Pacifica's hair. "Does this hair work for you?"

"I really like it. Thank you," Pacifica smiled back at her. "For the haircut and other… stuff."

"No problem! You can talk to me any time; I'm a gender expert. I'm also an expert in arts and crafts, romance, cartoons and much more!"

"I feel like I just saw a commercial in real life," Pacifica joked.

"So, are you buying?" Mabel giggled, trying to raise one eyebrow but raising both at once.

"Oh my gosh," Pacifica snorted.

"Mabel, do you know how to work this thing?" Dipper finally reentered the room, an ancient vacuum cleaner in tow.

Mabel made a noncommittal noise and shrugged. She perked up a moment later, cupping one hand around her ear. "I think the tv announcer guy just said _Nessie Goes to Mars_ is starting now…"

"Soos can do it tomorrow," Dipper decided, dropping the vacuum and turning to the living room. "You guys coming?"

Pacifica stared out the window, seeing both the darkness outside and the bright kitchen at once. She knew her parents would be mad about her leaving, about her hair. Cool air crept from the drafty window and she realized that she didn't care at that moment. She closed her eyes and put Mabel's mirror down on the table.

"Of course," Pacifica answered.


End file.
